


A Dishonest Mistake

by alivehawk1701



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Dr Frederick Chilton Being Who He Is, Dr. Frederick Chilton Being an Asshole, Gay yearning, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Little bit of angst, M/M, Magic, Magic Gone Wrong, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shameless Crossover References, Sorry Not Sorry, Which Isn't Really Really a Terrible Person, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, in a magical way, soft cannibals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivehawk1701/pseuds/alivehawk1701
Summary: Dr. Chilton decides the best way to get to the bottom of what's going on with Hannibal Lecter is to use magic. But of course, as expected, the spell goes wrong and Chilton finds himself in Will Graham's body and Will finds himself in Chilton's body. Mistake aside, our Dr. Chilton decides to make the best of the situation . . . set after Will leaves the BSHCI.
Relationships: Dr. Frederick Chilton/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 44





	1. It's Really an HR Problem Not Mine

**Author's Note:**

> After a bit of a holiday break I'm back with the promised body swap story. I will post chapters every day or so. This first chapter is from Frederick's POV, next will be Will's, you get the idea. I really must stop with the alternating POVs, promise I will, honest.

It was impossibly too predictable that as I entered my office, urine soaked down my pant leg all the way into the squeaking sole of my shoe, that she was crying. Not my urine, to be clear. A hazard of the job. And something that apparently doesn’t lose it’s thrill the first few dozen times. 

The young woman roused herself at my presence, dabbing a tragically abused tissue against her red nose and adjusted her ill fitting beige jacket in a feeble attempt to compose herself.

“Sorry for the delay,” I said, moving to sit at my desk with careful steps so not to reveal the unfortunate condition of my six hundred dollar  Salvatore Ferragamo loafers. No amount of baking soda or vinegar would extricate the smell. Believe me I’ve tried. I’ve also begged to have them replaced and was unabashedly rejected by an unapologetic customer service representative that obviously didn’t understand even the basic concept of brand loyalty, “I was with a patient.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said in the chirping way a featherless chick hanging halfway outside of their nest would, “I was told I could wait in here.”

“Yes,” I sat down and glanced quickly at my calendar, “Miss DeLac,” I cleared my throat, “And this wasn’t scheduled with our human resources manager because . . .?” I let the question hang heavy in the air, meeting her quivering gaze with impatience.

“I don’t want to quit,” she said quickly, a blonde curl shaking loose from behind her ear as she shook her head, “I’m so happy to be here.”

“Lucky to be here,” I clarified, leaning back and tapping my pen on the corner of my desk, “Do you know how many applicants we receive?” she looked shocked enough into stone stillness that she could make a plaster statue. Though in truth, not that she needed to know this, we had very few applicants. No one really wanted to work here. And if they did they didn’t last. Just like this hapless fawn. I took a deep breath which apparently she needed as an allowance to breathe herself, “What exactly is the problem?”

“Well,” she looked out the window, “Like I said I’m so--” she looked back to me, “Lucky to be here, I’m just, well, really struggling to feel, uh, effective with this um, population,” she sniffed and I felt my face twitch. Ah. Well. Colour me surprised. This girl would struggle with a run in her stockings not to mention sadistic delusional psychopaths tonguing their way through their plexiglass cages.

“There is an inescapable adjustment period,” I said, “The patients here will test your boundaries, of any new person.”

“Right,” she sighed, thinking for a moment that I was being understanding, “It’s definitely not what I’d expected.”

“Oh, I imagine,” I nodded, the weight of the day, all the days, suddenly slamming into me like a hydroplaning Ford Escort. I suddenly had no more empathy, not for her, or anyone, not after all I’d been through, all I’d sacrificed to be where I am, “Your whole world must feel like it’s quaking around you. All you learned from books, professors, thousands and thousands of dollars worth of a cellophane education can’t prepare you for this,” I waited to see if she had any sort of rebuttal, which of course she didn’t so I was forced to continue despite her wide eyed expression, “That delicate, mossy naivety that you cleave to, the good natured, small town, never meat on Fridays hopeful outlook on the world and your genuine need to take care of people got you this far. All the way to the precipice of what is undeniably and startlingly grotesquely madness made flesh,” I kicked my loafers off under my desk and leaned forward, watching her face fall further, “They’re animals and you thought you could still love them, right?” she didn’t answer, “You thought kind words, a pretty face, maybe imparting your particular sunny optimism to the inhabitants of my snake pit would be enough?”

“Well I--” she tried.

“I’d say think long and hard about this but you won’t, honestly, have that chance; there are countless opportunities out there for you if all you want to do is be the hundred fifty dollar tissue box to people that can’t motivate themselves to get out of bed or are too nervous to play cribbage on Friday evenings; but there is just one opportunity like this one,” her tears had turned silent, sliding down her face as her lip quivered, “The work we do here is giving shape and substance to our nightmares. Only then can we find a way to eradicate the night. The work we do here will change our understanding of the human brain for every generation to come,” I inhaled deeply and sat back, watching a drop of snot slip from her nose into her lap, “So,” I interlaced my fingers over my lap, “Use whatever self-awareness you have to figure out what you want to do now.”

She swallowed heavily and took a few shuddering moments before managing to say, “I was hoping, with your supervision, to maybe try for a few more--”

“I’m not here to hold your hand. This isn’t grad school,” I paused, sure that in time she’d see this as me doing her a favour, “And I’m sorry if this is insensitive or presumptive but I think once you leave these doors you’ll feel a great sense of relief.”

“You think I should just quit?”

“It’s not going to get any easier, “ I said, shifting my toes inside of my wet sock, knowing for myself, from my experience, in the one way that I can and do feel some authority and strength, that she didn’t have what it took not to break, “Talk to my assistant, she’ll get you to HR.”

She stood, swaying slightly and walked out of my office in a daze. Another life saved, I thought grimly and sighed at the fact that yet another promising young student was crashing and burning on the hillside of BSHCI. It was going to be impossible to get shifts covered now. Just impossible. 

I was reaching down to take off my socks when I heard a small knock on my door frame, “Dr. Chilton?” 

“Yes??!” I shouted, throwing my sock against the ground before looking up to see my assistant standing in the doorway.

“A package arrived for you. The one you were waiting for.”

“It did?” I sat up in my chair suddenly ambivalent to my bare feet on the ground.

“Here,” she stepped forward but before she could set the box on my desk I lunged forward and swiped it from her hands.

“Thank you,” I said, holding the box to my chest, “Go now. Shut the door.”

She left and I rolled back in my chair, staring at the box in my lap. The stylized pentangle on the package sent my heart into a frenzy. Finally. I grabbed a pair of scissors from my desk drawer and clumsily opened the package. After all these months. I’d hesitated, at least initially, in even considering the therapeutic application of the dark arts in psychotherapy. Especially when the simpering popularization of crystals and charms had made every twenty something into a wannabe wiccan. But after one or two nights of searching for a seller that appeared even marginally reprediable I’d found one. And I couldn’t resist. For research.

Inside the box, past the bubblewrap and what I assumed were instructions on how to perform the spell, was a small black box. With breathless anticipation I opened it to see a small leather pouch, a glimmering stone, a velvet cloth, and a blood red candle. I lifted the stone into the light and stared at the almost luminescent center, the onyx angles catching the sun beautifully. Opening the small fold of paper I saw the name of the shop at the top: Rowena’s Shop of Spells and Hexes, and quickly scanned the instructions. Didn’t seem too hard. Looked like a recipe. I’d initially thought that this spell, and others like it, could be a new avenue in the treatment of the criminally insane. Luckily for me not many people were jumping to be strong advocates for the fair and well researched treatment of the terminally crazy. But, in truth, I’d also considered other, less professional uses for it. Uses concerning the illustrious Dr. Hannibal Lecter and the disconsolate Will Graham. Will Graham who had recently left my accommodations and returned to the open arms of Hannibal Lecter. I shoved the contents back in the box and grabbed my coat. On the way out of the office I shouted at my assistant over my shoulder, “I’m done early today, reschedule whatever for tomorrow, I’ll be unreachable for the rest of the day.”

***

Back home I threw off my coat, kicked my shoes across the kitchen and tugged my tie loose in unadulterated and unabashed excitement. This was it. Finally. My cane clattered to the floor as I sat at my kitchen table and reopened the box. I took a moment to again catalog it’s contents. It didn’t seem like much. Didn’t seem like enough. How was I supposed to dreamwalk into Hannibal Lecter’s mind using three items and a recipe? 

I felt a sudden crushing doubt dampen the aforementioned excitement into a pitiful wet pulp. Maybe this was a hoax, a scam. Maybe it wouldn’t work. Maybe all those five star reviews were bogus. In frustration I unfolded the letter again and quickly scanned it:  _ “Follow this simple incantation and enter the unknown; walk in the mind of your friend, your enemy, your lover,” _ I rolled my eyes. Not in a thousand years. I read on. I wanted to know. Finally know. What was Hannibal Lecter up to? How was Will Graham involved and how could I finally understand the salacious secrets that were just at the periphery of my vision? 

I skimmed the instructions again and pulled quickly from a nearby drawer the fork I’d stolen from Hannibal’s the last time he’d had me over for dinner. He seemed to like to keep me close. Which was eerie. It certainly wasn’t based on any sort of collegial respect or appreciation. Too much was off about him. So practiced. So perfect. I needed to know. And he wouldn’t miss the salad fork. 

I continued reading,  _ “This spell will last anywhere between eight to twelve hours. After which you will return to your body with a whole new perspective. Remember to follow the instructions, my dear moon children, and if there are any ill effects or the spell doesn’t satisfy your expectations I have to remind you of our strict nonreturn policy. You are delving into the dark arts with an open, informed mind, and I am not, nor my shop, responsible for the outcomes. Save travels,” _ signed your Mummy Rowena.

Well that seemed clear enough. Do it right and if you don’t, don’t bother me about it. 

I spread the cloth on my kitchen table, placed the candle, the satchel of who knows what, the stone, and the fork where the instructions told me and then sat back. Okay. I was going to do this. Needed to. I could only hope that Hannibal’s dreams would be the cache of secrets I was hoping for. I lit the candle and started to read the spell out loud, stopping once when I was unsure of the pronunciation, then started again. I repeated it three times, like it told me to, then blew out the candle. I remained still, looking back and forth. Should I be feeling something? Seeing something? Any indication that it had worked? Nothing. I tamped down some anger and disappointment, hoping that maybe even without bells and whistles this thing would work once I fell asleep. 

I pushed the cloth away with a sigh. Fine. Okay. I’ll have an early night. I poured myself a glass of water and walked upstairs to my bedroom. Despite it all I felt a small flutter of excitement. Hannibal underestimates me. Always has. And he shouldn’t. Once I obtain undeniable evidence of whatever deviousness he’s been up to he’ll be put away so fast even Ledia and the Swan will have whiplash. And then he’ll be on my turf. And he’ll launch my career into the stratosphere. 


	2. A Dinner Invite Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Will's POV, the same night.

“How did this happen?”

“It just happened. Wasn’t paying attention. Really, it’s fine.”

Hannibal’s face leveled into an equally skeptical and impatient expression, “If you’d come to me in the ER with this I would have said you needed stitches.”

“Stitches?” I looked down at my hand which I had resting on his kitchen countertop, a bloody, thrown together with tape and paper towel bandage lying on the granite to further display my ineptitude, “I mean, it hurts,” I cleared my throat and tried not to notice my hand shaking, “Not gonna lie.”

Hannibal let out a small sigh and lightly picked up my palm again, gently holding it to the light. In the process of chopping some carrots I’d cut a rather deep wound into the pad of my thumb. I was forced to admit, at his repeated and concerned inspection of the injury, that I had come far too close to losing the tip of my thumb completely. I’d had enough injuries in my youth to not be overly squeamish but the moment I’d stopped in at Hannibal’s he’d noticed my bandage and insisted on taking a look.

“I’m sure it does,” he said as his fingers lightly traced down my palm to my wrist. The sensation mixed oddly with the throbbing in my thumb, making me bite my lip.

“I think it’s fine,” I insisted with admittedly less conviction, “I’m not worried about it.”

“Alright,” he remained holding my hand and meeting my eyes, “The tip of your thumb may die and fall off. Of course that would be after infection sets in.”

“I cleaned it.”

“Will.”

“Okay,” I looked at the gnarly flap of skin and decided that conceding to his obvious expertise would save healing time and save both our stubborn natures a lot of grief, “You’re right.”

“I can stitch it quickly. If you have time,” he lowered my hand to the counter and he seemed instantly relieved as I nodded in agreement.

He was already dressed for his party in a dark blue suit that was expertly tailored to his body. While I was absently biting the inside of my check, worried about interrupting his plans while simultaneously rejecting yet another dinner invitation, he swept the buttons of his jacket loose and with a graceful shrug threw his suit jacket on the back of a chair, “Sit,” he ordered and I sat as he exited the kitchen, presumably to get supplies. 

His staff, or so I presumed, though they never seemed to be the people twice, materializing like mushrooms after a rainy evening and moved in and out of the dining room and the kitchen with a wordless purpose. I rolled my sleeve up to my elbow and felt regret creep past the pain of my thumb. Maybe I should stay. He seems to want me here. He asks me whenever he has a party. I hate parties. I’d just wanted to drop off a bottle, say hello, and decline, again, his invitation yet here he was, stitching up my flesh instead. Maybe he missed doing that kind of doctor stuff. Maybe he didn’t want to get rusty. 

When he came back to the kitchen with a small black leather bag I met his eyes and couldn’t help but notice a lock of hair fallen loose, dropping almost artfully across his brow as he sat next to me at the island.

“This should take no time at all,” he reassured, “The original injury was just a few hours ago?” 

“Yeh,”

“Good,” he smiled and shifted in a way that caused his knees to knock into mine as he set up a clean cloth, some sort of antiseptic and a needle and thread, “Would you like any lidocaine?”

“I don’t think so,” I shook my head as he swabbed the wound clean, “Couldn’t be that many stitches.”

“Very well,” he looked up from his work and when he met my eyes they seemed to envelope us both in our own atmosphere, away from the outside world, dimming the lights from humming fluorescent to the comforting crackle of a fireplace. He reached to pull my arm flat onto the counter, turning my palm upward, fingers smoothing over mine, “I know it hurts but can you make a fist? Bend your fingers and thumb around my hand,” I shakily did so, absently noticing calluses on his palms and fingertips that I hadn’t expected. Maybe from the instruments he played? “Good,” he praised, “Now relax your hand,” he threaded the needle and shifted closer to me, his knee between my legs as he quickly sanitized the wound, blowing it dry lightly with pursed lips, “I will supplement painkillers with a story then,” he caught my gaze again quickly so I wouldn’t see the needle and thread nearing my thumb, “When I was a small child my parents got me my very own pony.”

“What?” I smiled and only winced slightly at the first stitch.

“He was a sturdy, surefooted fellow. Though small in stature he had a furious heart and wouldn’t allow any of the other horses to bully him,” the needle smoothly ran in and out my flesh as I watched his lips move, enjoying the sweet nostalgia that coloured his countenance as he spoke, “We went on many adventures and though we were very good friends he was very fond of bucking me off his back again and again,” a sharp tug of the thread made me jerk uncontrollably and his other hand moved up my arm to steady me, “Though of course I was never really injured,” he continued as his hands danced gracefully in a final knot, “He was barely four feet from the ground,” he smiled and snipped the thread free from my thumb, “And one day while out riding in a far off meadow a wolf came upon us, catching us both unawares” he squeezed some ointment over the wound and prepared a bandage, “My pony fought the wolf, defended me with such bravery and valour that we escaped unscathed, even victorious. We ran the whole way home.”

“The pony fought a wolf?”

“Indeed he did,” the bandage settled firmly over my thumb and it felt instantly better as he smoothed the last of the tape over my skin, “I made him a medal out of clay and put it on a ribbon which he wore around his neck for the rest of the summer.”

He smiled sweetly, eyes distant. For a moment I caught the image of a small, roan coloured pony with a thick white and cream coloured mane and large lively brown eyes in a field of yellow flowers. Even all these years later, I felt Hannibal’s overwhelming and innocent affection for the creature. I wanted to ask what happened to the pony but didn’t want to ruin the memory if it caused him such happiness. 

Work done, Hannibal seemed to absently run his fingertips over mine, curious at each knuckle, the small, light touches, presumably for some medical purpose but undeniably exploratory. For an instant I responded by pressing my fingertips into his and watched the stretch of his knuckles. He barely betrayed his outward composure, skin warm under mine, before a small huff of air and a smile, “All done.”

“Wasn’t so bad,” I said, as his hands left mine. I watched him clean up quickly and felt his mind, emotions, retreat from mine.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

I shook my head, “When you said you were having dinner I thought, you know, dinner, not a whole shindig.”

“I could have been more forthcoming.”

“It’s no mystery I’m less comfortable with crowds. I’d prefer something more--”

“Intimate.”

“Yeh,” I said, the moment lingering for a moment too long, his eyes unwaveringly curious yet satisfied, as that space was somewhere he could occupy for an eternity. I broke eye contact first. My heart felt like it was pounding, probably loud enough for him to hear, which made me a little uncomfortable. 

And suddenly the kitchen was a kitchen again and my skin felt tingly as I stood and pulled my jacket back on, careful not to jostle my thumb. He did the same, putting on his suit jacket before handing me a stack of bandages and tape. 

“Here,” he said, “At least take these. I’ll walk you out.”

I took the bandages and turned to walk through his house to his front door, overly aware of every movement of his body as he walked behind me. I turned at the door and met his eyes which were somehow brighter in the dim light. 

“Thank you,” I said, licking my lips, “I like this thumb. Would have hated to lose it,” I rolled my eyes. God that sounded so lame.

“You may still have a scar,” he said in a low voice and when I flared my nostrils I caught his clean scent away from the myriad of smells in the kitchen.

“It won’t be my first,” I said.

“Nor your last.”

“Too bad it’s not really a worthwhile story to retell.”

“I will remember it fondly.”

“Oh?” I smiled, eyeing him with intrigue, “Real high kicks sewing a mangled thumb before a dinner party?”  
“Dinner parties are all too frequent.”

“Dime a dozen?”

“Why do you think I keep asking you to join me?”

I scrubbed at the rouch brizzles of my face and broke eye contact. The emotions I sensed from him, not for the first time, were wordless, golden hued and intensifying like a rising sun, almost tactile, raising the hairs on the back of my neck, swelling the breath in my chest into my throat. When I found his eyes again I could almost feel them stroke over my skin, “I better go.”

The barest flicker of his eyes down my body, “Sorry to see you leave.”

“Maybe next time,” I chanced a smile.

“You enjoy teasing me?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Then I won’t stop asking.”  
I inched out the door till I was standing in the cold, “The dogs.”

“The dogs,” he repeated as I lingered, feeling a strange pull at my ankles, before I forced my shoe from the floor and stepped further into the cold air of the night, “Thanks again.”

He hovered at the door, an arm resting on the frame, “No need. You are welcome anytime, by medical need or otherwise.”

“Right,” I said, breathing in what may have been a backwards laugh, “Yeh.”

“Goodnight, Will,”

“Goodnight, Hannibal,” and I turned and felt the stems between us break and snap with an almost audible gasp. 

I used the momentum I gained and kept walking, steps wavering. How did just walking through a door become so difficult? It was confusing. Yet as I walked I enjoyed the tingling almost illuminated inhale of exhilaration. It was almost intoxicating. I’d felt it before. In distant immature, golden nostalgic moments from my past where butterflies fluttered in bellies and sweat pooled under armpits. It felt good. And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it didn’t need to be inspected, looked at, analyzed, it just was. I unlocked my car and looked back, remembering the curl of his lips and the lock of hair falling over his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a body swap story but couldn't resist a little soft and sweet flirting between these two. My reaction writing it was "argh! what's the matter with you??" though you will have to read on to understand the significance of it all. Thanks all for reading. Comments are love, cheers:)


	3. I'm Not Where I'm Supposed to Be Afterall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Chilton's POV, the morning after he cast the spell . . .

Oh god. What was that? What’s wet? What’s licking my face? I threw my arm up to ward off the assault and my hand met fur and a small whimper. Whimper? My eyes opened in the crusty reluctant way of those unfairly roused from a deep sleep. I saw a snout and felt the squirming restless body of a dog, two dogs on the bed next to me. What the hell? How did dogs get in my bedroom? My eyes focused and I immediately realized I wasn’t in my bedroom. Fuck. What happened last night? I sat up quickly enough that one of the dogs jumped from the bed and the other, apparently more dedicated to my suffering, made another lunge for my face.

“Get off of me!” I shouted and that scared them enough to scamper from the room. The room. A bare, rustic, bedroom. That was not mine. I groaned and my mind, somehow leaden and unwealding managed to piece together last night. The spell. Had I slept? Where was I? I threw the covers back and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

They aren’t my legs. I stared down at the bare feet, attached to muscled calves with too light of fur on them, up to clothes I didn’t remember wearing. I held out my arms and didn’t recognize them. What the fuck. What the actual fuck? 

I stood and immediately realized that I didn’t feel any of the familiar bodily pain that I’d come to anticipate upon waking in the morning. Both my legs held me up with no effort. My hands shot to my face and everything was out of place. My hair. It was longer and tangled and stuck to my forehead with sweat. I stumbled through the unfamiliar room, tripping on a pair of shoes and maybe a dog into the bathroom, searching haplessly for a light. 

And there I was in the mirror. Or rather there I wasn’t. Will Graham stared back at me. 

What happened? How was this possible? My hands returned to my face, his face, and I traced my fingertips over unfamiliar cheeks, nose, brow. Oh my god. I yanked up my shirt and there was no scar across my abdomen. Nothing. He was hairier than I thought, a part of my brain noted, though that fun fact in no way diminished or resolved any of my absolute shock. A sudden sharp pain in my thumb made me cringe and I noticed it was bandaged. Injured. It throbbed weakly as I grasped the porcelain of Will’s sink and stared at my reflection.

I was in Will Graham’s body. I’d cast a spell to dream walk into Hannibal Lecter’s dreams and somehow ended up squatting in Will Graham's body. I stared into the large blue eyes with shock, the expression somehow not registering as mine in the mirror, everything from the air in my lungs to the beating of my heart deeply and frighteningly not mine.

If I was here, in Will’s body; where was Will? I backed away from the mirror and heard again the scampering scrape of the dogs around me. Christ, how many did he have? I took a shuddering breath and almost uncontrollably realized I was running my hands over the body I was in, trying to map out, sort out it’s dimensions. Suddenly it felt wrong, like a violation, an atrocity, and I stood stark still, unsure how to proceed. 

The sound of a phone made me jump, unfamiliar nerves exciting quickly and sharply in Will’s body, all his, my, muscles tense and singing in every limb. I stumbled from the bathroom to the bedroom, looking for a cell phone by the side of the bed, trying to find out where the sound was coming from. Not here. A land line? Who the fuck has a land line anymore? I walked, clumsily to the ringing and found it in the kitchen. I stared at the phone and hesitated. Should I answer? It’s not my phone. Should I answer? The dogs were all around me, demanding something, to be let out, fed, who the fuck knows, and with a shaking hand I picked up the phone and brought it to my ear.

“Hello?” I said, the sound of Will’s voice from my mouth adding further terror to my morning.

“Who the fuck is this?” I heard on the other line. It was my voice. My real voice, “Frederick?!”

“Who is this?” I demanded, the cord tangled around my arm, knowing the answer but not able to accept it.

“Will Graham,” my voice answered and the name sunk deep in my chest, “I’m in your house. I woke up in your bed!”

“You’re in my house?”

“I’m in  _ your _ body!” 

“How is that possible?”

“You’re asking me?  _ What  _ did you do?”

“What did _I_ do?”  
“Are you--” his voice faltered slightly, his voice, my voice, so unfamiliar, angry, asked with rising horror, “You’re in my body too.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t know.”

“What did you do?!” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, this isn’t possible. This is impossible!”

“Frederick,” he warned with so much rage I could almost feel his hand around my neck through the phone.

“It was a spell!”

“A magic spell?”

“What other kind of spell is there? Yes! Yes, a magic fucking spell.”

“You wanted to switch bodies?”

“No! Not in a million years no!”

“Then what?! Why?”

“I’ll find a way to reverse it, I’ll fix it, I didn’t mean to do this, I’m--”

“Frederick, so help me if you don’t switch us back I will destroy you.”

My breath caught in my throat and I helplessly felt myself start to shake, “You think I wanted this?”

“Just how sick and twisted you are is not something I spend a lot of time contemplating but honesty, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you think I want to be in your body?”

“Find a way, Frederick. Reverse the spell.”

“How am I supposed to know how to do that?”

“Figure it out! And until you do, don’t talk to anyone, don’t pretend you are me; leave my life and my body alone.”

“And I’m supposed to just trust you’ll do the same?”

“It’s mutually assured destruction. We are both in unique positions to royally fuck with the other.”

“You’re still angry with me.”

“No matter how I feel about you I’m not like you, I wouldn’t do something like this, in fact all I’ve ever really wanted from you is to be left alone.”

“Alright then. I’ll reverse the spell and we’ll both just,” one or more of the dogs had started to bark at the door, “Fuck, why do you live with ten dogs?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Dare what? I’m not a monster, I’m not going to hurt an innocent animal,” I felt goosebumps rise over my arms and it was impossibly bizarre to feel the shudder over the shoulders that weren’t mine. I can’t believe he thought of me that way. He thought I was the kind of man that would kick a puppy, Jesus Christ, of course Will Graham would hold a stiff unyielding grudge. I’d just been doing my job, he had been charged with the gruesome murders of four, five, however many people. I sighed in frustration, the barks having given way to pitiful whimpers and whines, “They are very demanding!”

“It’s hardly rocket science, feed them, let them outside,” he said impatiently and I almost recognized the strained sound of fear in my, his, voice.

I lunged forward to the front door and the cord jerked taunt, “I can’t exactly let them out while I’m on the phone with you, who the hell doesn't have a cellphone in this day and age?”

“I’ve never needed one, apart from my work phone,,” he grumbled then he sighed, taking several deep and shuddering breaths, “Alright, so you did the spell how? Where? What did it say exactly?”

“The instructions, the materials are on my kitchen table, all they sent me is there. The instructions said,” I thought back, finding it hard to focus, hard to remember, then, my palm smacked my forehead, “Oh thank christ, I remember it said that that spell only lasted eight to twelve hours.”

“Eight to twelve hours. Okay. And until then?”

“Well you’re going to have to call into my work, tell them I, you, won’t be there. You aren’t working. Anyone going to miss your sparkling presence for a day?”

“You know I’m still on leave,” he scowled. 

“So we just wait it out,” I watched the dogs scratch at the front door, thinking, thinking, not knowing what to do, not knowing the first thing about magic or magic gone wrong except, in retrospect, the fact that it always goes wrong, “Do you happen to know anyone connected to the magic community in Baltimore?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Think Hannibal knows anyone?”

“Don’t talk to him.”

“I wasn’t going to. But if he has any connections.”

“He doesn't.”

“You know for sure?”

“For sure,” a pause and then another aggravated sigh, “Fredrick, you should just come here. Straight here. Don’t go anywhere else. We’ll just figure it out together.”

So now he wanted to work together? Oh great. “Fine, I’ll come to you,” I agreed, knowing he was right. This was a real mistake. Not what I’d planned. So so not what I planned. I then rolled my eyes, conceding to the inescapable furry task at hand, “Is there a particular kind of food that your dogs need? Where is it?”

Will apparently conceded to the same reality and walked me through their care and I nodded and silently damned myself and the whole stupid idea I’d had and the way that nothing ever works out for me, not entirely, not like I ever mean it to. Am I that reckless? That stupid? The words echoed from somewhere distant. Past. 

I assured him that I would be on my way to him shortly and once I hung up the phone I let the dogs out. All but one went outside. One of them, a fluffy looking one with weird fur that looked like it had permanently rolled in mud sat and stared at me, “What do you want?” I asked it and blinked, eyes locking to mine, “Food? Here,” I went in the fridge, got the food as Will had instructed and glopped some in several bowls, “Here,” I set the bowl down and expected the dog to come running for it but it just sat and put its ears back, “Fine. Fine with me. Go hungry.”

I went back to the bedroom to look for something to wear. Yes, I was freaking out, and didn’t really want to drive to my own house where someone else was in my body but there was a more important, certainly more urgent need. I needed to pee. Fuck. Okay. I can do this. 

For any weirdness I felt at first it was ten times weirder suddenly thinking about Will in my body, maybe with the same, all too normal and bound to happen biological function. It felt wrong. On both sides. 

I went to the bathroom and again stared in the mirror. Such bright eyes. Especially in the sun. And the lines of this jaw, the easy dark stubble that my hand smoothed over, very pleasing. The sharp cupid’s bow and his plump lower lip. When I ran my thumb over my lip, down my chin, to my neck where my fingers tickled the messy curls a shiver ran down Will’s spine. Sensitive. I shifted my shoulders, watching the movement in the mirror, spreading my hand over my stomach, to the hip and over my flank through the thin fabric of my underwear. My hand moved around to my round ass and I squeezed, turning slightly in the mirror to get a better look. Wow. The way my spine curved through to my tail bone it was an attractive arch. Hmm. Something to appreciate. Oddly. Okay.

The sting of my bladder redirected my attention. I can do this. No need to be childish about it. Just a bodily function. I lifted the toilet seat and spread my legs slightly before pulling my, his, penis from my underwear, fingers trying to handle as lightly as possible the hot, heavy flesh. I at first averted my gaze but as the stream started I looked down, groaning in relief. He was cut, larger than I had imagined, or as large as I’d suspected maybe, really had never thought I’d be in a situation to find out. For his height anyway. I shook the last droplets from myself and tucked his, my, penis back into my underwear, trying not to notice the pulse of blood in my groin or the way one of my balls had stuck to my leg. Fuck. Okay. I shifted myself through the fabric and gritted my teeth. Fine. Done. 

I washed my hands and suddenly heard a knock on the door. Oh Jesus. I walked far enough into the living room to see who it was. Well. Alright. Unexpected. Maybe. 

It was Hannibal Lecter. At Will’s. Unannounced? I had no way of knowing. Maybe this was a regular thing. My heart thundered in response to my fear and nervousness but I couldn’t just ignore him. All the dogs were out there. He knew I was home.

I strode to the door and opened it, “Hi,” I said lamely and stepped back with my arms around myself, backing away to the other side of the room as Hannibal remained at the door, letting in the dogs.

“Good morning,” Hannibal said, shutting the door and pulling off his hat. I said nothing and he remained standing on the rug, for an instant paralyzed with fear that he knew instantly that I wasn’t really Will. I held my breath till he asked with what sounded like genuine concern, “Will, are you alright?” The dogs were gathered around his feet, greeting who was obviously a familiar guest to them. Interesting. Hannibal, I’d figured, was far far from a dog person.

“I’m fine,” I answered and clapped my hands to my hips, thinking that would be a Will-like gesture, “Great. What,” I watched as he unbuttoned his coat, confused, what was he doing, he was staring at me, “What are you doing here?”

“You left the dogs out, Will. It’s cold.”

Casual? A casual house guest? Really? Obviously this wasn't my house. And I wasn’t Will. But there was no way to make this casual for me. Not in these circumstances. Hannibal Lecer and I had a strained relationship to say the least. Competitive bordering on antagonistic with a thin film of geniality would be the best and most generous way of explaining it. 

Intellectually I like to think I, and the questions I posed, were a challenge to him. To his high horse. Or high hill of which he considered himself king. Or whatever. Regardless, I wasn’t me in this moment. Not to him. I was Will. Will just out of the hospital. Will whom he had a relationship with. A relationship laden with mystery and intrigue. At least to outward observers. And to the best of my ability to understand it seemed he was here for little more than a social call. Odd as it seemed.

“They have fur,” I shrugged, not moving from where I was standing. 

“You’re not wearing any trousers.”

I looked down, “No I’m not,” I looked back up to him, “I can put some on if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry,” he said a little softly, “Maybe I should go. I was only going to take the chance that you hadn’t had breakfast yet and had assumed you would have been up.”

It was eight o’clock. I remembered from Will’s chart his difficulty sleeping and figured he was likely an unwilling early riser, “You drove an hour to bring me breakfast?”

“My morning clients canceled,” the fluffy dog knocked its head into Hannibal’s palm and he bent to pet it gently.

I thought about Will’s warning. Not to talk to Hannibal. Kicking him out would be more disruptive, wouldn’t it? Damage already done, I guess. “It’s fine, come in,” I said, then, “I’ll go put something on though,” I turned without another word and went to the bedroom to find a pair of trousers on the floor which I pulled on followed by a flannel shirt that I found over a chair.

When I came back to the kitchen Hannibal had taken off his coat and was setting out plates at a small, 1960s looking vinyl table that was probably original to the house.

“Did you not sleep well?” he asked, eyes passing over my body, which I, or Will’s body instantly and definitely noticed. I felt a flush around my ears. I squirmed against the sudden response and realized how little I, or anyone, could control such reactions. 

I crept closer, unsure, not willing to fully accept Hannibal Lecter as a house guest, no matter the congenial guise he had adopted, “Slept okay. Maybe a little too well.”

“Really?”

“Just tired. Must have needed it.”

“No doubt,” he said, placing a container in the middle of the table before pulling back a chair to sit down, “Please. There’s coffee as well.”

“Thank god,” I said honestly needing coffee. Will could wait a few more minutes. I moved toward the table, hoping that it wasn’t noticeable that I wasn’t used to handling these arms and legs, these operative arms and legs that weren’t my own. It was amazing actually. Will’s body hadn’t been ravaged by a psychopathic serial killer. We all have to count our blessings. Maybe when this was over I’d remind him of that. I sat and Hannibal passed a mug over to me.

“So how are you adapting to being back at home?”

I grimaced at the coffee, hot and strong on my tongue, enough to make a face and set the mug down with a slight slosh over the edge. Did people taste so differently? I always took my coffee black. Did Will prefer sugar and cream? 

“Back home,” I repeated, blowing on the steaming liquid, suddenly terrible at improv. Then it hit me. His clever bringing of breakfast wasn’t as clever as he thought. I saw through it, even if Will didn’t. He was checking in on me. Monitoring Will’s mental health. Maybe even digging for more dirt on me. On Chilton. Looking for more ways I had tortured poor sweet, innocent Will. Wanting his client back. Wanting to heal the damage done in the gruesome halls of the BSHCI. Surely Hannibal wasn’t so naive. Though Will was far from blameless and miles from sweet.

“It’s home,” I picked up the coffee again, watching him sit back in his chair, the strange, almost alien lines of his face caught in the morning sun, the oddness of his cheekbones so high and sharp more than I’d ever noticed. And his disproportionately large lips were suddenly so different than when I’d last seen him, so starkly changed through the context of WIll Graham's breakfast nook on a Tuesday morning, “Why do you ask?”

He blinked, chin raising to study me with a short deep breath, “I’m concerned for your wellbeing.”

“Since . . . I was let out.”

“Since your imprisonment, yes.”

“Imprisonment? Hardly.” My hospital was far from a prison. Will should have considered himself lucky.

“What would you call it?”

“My treatment,” I offered, taking another sip of coffee as he divided up what was presumably breakfast. Eggs? Meat of some kind. I couldn’t have meat. But Will could.

“Your treatment then,” he conceded, “The question stands; how are you adjusting?”

“Of course I’m glad to be home. Hard not to miss this . . .” I looked around at the space, for the first time really looking at the strange ambiance created through engine parts, books, dog beds and fishing gear, all complemented by the strong and insistent smell of dog, oil, and well, bachelor, “Place.”

“Your dogs must be happy to have you home.”

“Oh yeh,” I took a bite and felt Will’s mouth flood with saliva.

“Winston especially.”

“Winston, yes,” I had no idea which one was Winston. Will and I hadn’t gotten to his mutt’s names in our therapy.

“And I imagine you’re enjoying your free time before work starts again.”

Work? They were going to let him teach again? Jesus. Jack Crawford was an idiot. He had no idea who he was letting wander around the halls of Quantico in glasses and corduroy jackets. 

I cleared my throat and licked at the sloppy saliva around my lips, blaming Will’s body, not me, “As much as I can,” I said.

I watched his hands, delicately holding his fork with finely clipped nails and charming cufflinks, then looked up to his face and again felt flabbergasted. What did he want? How badly did he want to harm me? What did he think I did to Will? If it wasn’t that, what was it? Perhaps Will had a more open relationship with Hannibal than I thought. Would he tell Will, had he told Will, whatever it is that he’s hiding? What did Will know?

I looked back down and tugged my eyebrows together, biting at the stange lower lip, deciding to change tactics, “It has been difficult.”

“How so?” Hannibal’s eyes sought mine again and I at first averted them, like Will would, then was struck by something. Something at the edge of my senses. Something like the first droplets of rain on pavement. Like the pins and needles of a sleeping limb. It pattered across my, Will’s consciousness as easily as someone would hear music. This was his empathy, I realized. The thing he talked about so much. I’d never really believed in it. Figured it was all likely part of his delusion. But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. It was real. And even if I didn’t know how to interpret it, control it, there was something, something strong and intensely noticeable coming from Hannibal.

I cleared my throat and tried to shift in my chair, get away from the feeling, his feeling, whatever it was, “You know me,” I said, searching through what I’d heard Will say or what I’d thought Will would say, “People dont understand me.”

“It will take time,” he said and took a bite of food, still eying me in a way that made me intensely nervous, “For them and for yourself. It is no small thing you went through.”

“I guess,” I said and took a large bite of sausage that made me groan. God! How amazing. Meat after all these months. Fuck fuck fuck.

My response seemed to please Hannibal and I actually saw him smile. It was small, fleeting, and mostly in his eyes but I saw it. It hadn’t faded when he asked, “And your thumb?”

“This? Oh it’s fine.”

“An old colleague, who thought he was very funny, used to call me the fastest stitches in the West.”

“Flattering.”

“Any discomfort? Swelling?”

“I haven’t looked at it.” 

Hannibal, gathering his mug with both hands, elbows resting on the table, took a deep breath, “Plans for the day?”

“Yes.”

“Such as?”

“Things.”

“Okay,” he took a drink and shifted his eyes out the front window.

Maybe he was used to Will being evasive. Much like I was. But I would never have this chance again. Unusual circumstances lend to unusual opportunities. And I can’t ignore that, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think Chilton was right about me? At all?”

“In what sense?”

“That I’m twisted. Mentaly incompetent. Narcissistically manipulative.”

“Are you asking me as a professional or as a friend?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“No. But I’m curious why you are asking.”

“Maybe I’m just curious about how you see me. We’re . . . close. I feel like I can trust you.”

“You can trust me,” he said, “But how I see you is irrelevant to your recovery. How you see yourself will be the path forward.”

“Maybe Chilton had a point.”

“Dr. Chilton is overly prone to seeing zebras when he hears hoofbeats.”

“And when you hear hoofbeats? You just assume horses?”

“I am not quick to assume pathology.”

“Shouldn’t you though? As a psychiatrist?”

“My modality is different.”

“To say the least.”

“I would never savage a person’s potential simply for the sake of fitting them into a preordained box. One size does not often fit all.”

“A generous interpretation of modern psychology.”

“There is a place in this world for doctors like Chilton. There are a fair few unfortunates whose minds are beyond the ability of holding onto any concept of self or constructed reality.”

“But you don’t think we need to worry about him. If he’s not a threat.”

Hannibal’s face softened and there was a small peek of tongue at his lips as he calculated and recalculated, giving far too much away with his eyes, bleeding out his concern for Will in that same intangible energy I’d felt before, “He can no longer hurt you, Will.”

I imagine Will’s eyes, my eyes, widening, huge and wet and vulnerable and in those precious seconds as I met Hannibal’s eyes I felt the beat of Hannibal’s heart not just through Will’s gift but through the tabletop, making me ask with a slow pout of my lips, “You’ll protect me?”

He seemed set in stone, a fierce, hot intensity taking my breath for a moment as he said with calm and undeniable assuredness, “With tooth and claw.”

Whether I was not used to Will’s obviously fucked up nervous system or it actually was too insane to withstand or understand I averted my eyes and leaned back in my chair, needing whatever this was to stop, at least long enough for me to figure out what to do next. I took a deep breath and said, “I appreciate the meal. Really, but I better get on with my day.”

He accepted this, placing his napkin on the table and nodding slowly but asked with a dripping sincerity, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeh, I just have a lot I need to get done,” I took one last big mouthful of the rest of my breakfast and chewed with eyes closed for a moment. God so good. I wasn’t in a position to actually appreciate the gesture of being brought breakfast but the food itself was amazing. And if Hannibal felt slighted it wasn’t something I’d have to deal with.

Hannibal stood up and began to gather his items, “I understand. Call me later if you need to. I’ve no parties this evening.”

“Sure,” I said, standing up as well, stretching out my spine in a way that felt delicious, free of pain and stiffness, “Maybe.”

He shouldered his bag and met my eyes with another small smile, “Is that a promise? Or more teasing?”

“I really couldn’t say,” I said honestly, hoping I’d be back in my body by then. As he lingered I felt the hot twinge of emotions rolling off him again and I was instantly baffled and intrigued. 

“Well. I only have one appointment today. Dinner is open to you. Just you and I.”

How was I respond to this? For myself I was confused and suspicious. But in Will’s body I felt a stong pull toward whatever this was. His body was alight with sympathetic nerves, singing in the morning sun with near unadulterated cheer. Odd. When he is, to everyone else, such a camugenly character. I ran a hand through my hair and shrugged my shoulders, “I’ll call you.”

Hannibal nodded. I sensed, in the inexplicable tactile way that Will apparently sensed things, that he wanted to remain but I said no more and he put on his coat and turned at the door, “Enjoy your day, Will,” and left.

I watched the dogs reposition themselves into their beds. All but the one. It stood by the door after Hannibal had left then looked back at me. The creature knew. I was certain of it. I glared at it, “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair,” I told it and moved around the small house, looking for my own coat, keys and boots. 

On the dresser in Will’s bedroom was a cardboard box that immediately caught my eye. Burberry. Unwrapped from the tissue was a beautiful cashmere scarf that was the most beautiful shade of blue. The perfect blue, I realized, to bring out Will’s eyes. It was a solid colour, no logo apart from near the fringe where there was a gold button, quality without the flaunting. Will was not a logo kind of guy. Laying next to the scarf was a card that simply read, “I tried to persuade the winter to hold off until after you were home safe but was unsuccessful. This scarf should offer some warmth. Yours, Hannibal”. I passed my fingertips over the fabric and wondered why Will hadn’t taken it out of the box. 

Maybe this magic mistake wasn’t wholly a disaster. Maybe I could get what I wanted after all. Just in a different way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Hannibal. Poor Winston! Let's see what Chilton decided to do next . . . thanks for reading, let me know what you think!


	4. An Uncomfortable Insight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will's POV, short chapter before the end.

I hung up the phone and immediately felt like throwing up. I hobbled to the kitchen sink and supported myself on his arms, feeling the impossible turmoil heave through me; this was a nightmare. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it was a dream, even a delusion, begging to open my eyes in Wolf Trap. When I opened them all I saw was bright white walls and glass and the ache, the constant, stabbing pain of the body I was trapped in. I maybe didn’t realize how debilitated Frederick was from his encounter with Gideon. How much he suffered day to day.

And here I was. In Fredrick Cnilton’s house. Locked inside his body after a spell gone wrong. They always go wrong.

And I didnt even like Chilton. His mind was like a wet, greasy tide whenever I was near him, it was disturbing, off putting, consuming. Somehow he both seemed irresistibly attracted and repulsed by me at the same time, a combination I didn't enjoy basking in while under his care. 

But in truth there was very little I actually knew about him. I leaned back against the counter and looked around. Apparently he was into a modern, minimalist aesthetic. I felt blinded in his space, overwhelmed by the harsh light and sterile impersonal decor. When you come home it should feel cozy, comfortable, undeniably and happily home; not this. Here I was worried about leaving a mark on anything. And it was empty. Lonely. Not just because there were no dogs. It just wasn’t lived in. Maybe he really did spend that much time at work. 

And his body was a mess. I hadn’t looked in a mirror yet but based on how I felt I could guess what I’d find. I moved to the master bath and switched on the light. 

First, Frederick wore black silk pajamas. Tops and bottoms. Even his sleepwear matched his home decor. Maybe it meant that much to him. The whole image. To me it just felt sad. Cold. He needed a shave but I sure as fuck was’t going to do that. I stared into his eyes and in the mirror I saw fear. Mine or his? Both? 

At first I felt a swell of anger at this man, at his reckless, ridiculous choices seemingly born from pure unimpeded narcissism then, maybe from somewhere within the damaged organs and shaking flesh I felt a jab of pity and most shocking, sympathy. Desperation leads people to do things they wouldn't normally do. And he must be desperate. Miserable even. 

I turned from the mirror, switched off the light and went back to the kitchen to the table where he said the magical items were. Had to see for myself. See what he did. I shuffled and limped to the chair and pulled it out, sinking into it with a groan. In front of me was a scattering of items that looked like they belonged in a head shop, not the home of a supposed professional. I skimmed the letter and saw the spell was meant for dream walking. I sat back. Dreamwalking? He wanted to walk in my dreams? He must know that’s a terrible idea. My dreams are not for anyone to roam in. One of the items on the table was a fork I recognized from Hannibal’s table. Interesting. Had he meant to walk in Hannibal’s dreams?

I peeked at the name of the seller: Rowena? Hadn’t that name been in the news? Some poor sap had wanted to boost their self-esteem by using some kind of charm she’d sold and they’d ended up drowning Narcissus style in their own reflection. It’d been completely impossible to prosecute but devastatingly tragic. Someone selling real magic to idiots that didn’t know how to use it for what? Shits and giggles? 

But Frederick was right, the spell he’d cast was supposedly temporary. I just wanted him to get here. So we could wait it out with the minimal amount of damage to either of us. The idea of him in my body was nauseating and superemly offensive. In my house. With my dogs. 

I picked up the crystal that had come with the whole ill begotten kit and kaboodal and shoved it in my pocket. Maybe I’d hang on to it.

What to do till he gets here? I stood and went to the fridge which caused his stomach to grumble. Hungry? I opened it and it was tragically empty. There was a container of almond milk and a stained rumpled box of old chinese food but not much else. I took the milk from the fridge, opened it, sniffed, and drank a little, feeling his stomach flop and twist. Maybe best to avoid food. 

Maybe I’ll just get dressed and wait for him to get here. I made my way upstairs to his bedroom and found he had a very well stocked walk in closet. I couldn’t help but wonder if Hannibal had the same sort of thing. My nostrils flared, imagining what Hannibal’s closet would smell like, wool and sage and his own particular smell, but Fredicks’s closet just smelled lifeless, full of chemicals from the dry cleaners. He did dress well. Not that I knew anything about it. Pants. Shirt. I wasn’t going to wear a waistcoat. No way. 

Something caught my eye in the back of the closet. A small shelf where several pictures sat partially obstructed by a row of coats. I looked closer and saw they were of Frederick. Frederick and an older woman. His mom? One where he was a young child on a bike. Another at what looked like a graduation. Next to the pictures was a dried red rose. I paused a moment at the small, odd shrine at the back of his closet. It was the only human thing I’d seen in his house. Why hide it? Did it not fit into the decor? Did he want to keep it safe? 

I realized, uncomfortably, that I knew very little about him. If he had a family. If he really was as alone as he seemed. Or worse, if he really was so alone, was it not by his choosing? Next to the pictures was a card; a congratulations card. Curiosity got the better of me and I picked it up. It read “I knew you would make it, you worked so hard to finish and I know your father would be proud of you. I hope you come home for your break.”

Everyone is important to someone. And if you’re lucky it’s family. At least at one point Frederick had his mom. Someone that understood him. Knew him better than anyone. Who had faith in him. If she was dead now at least he had it for as long as he did. 

I grabbed the clothes closest to me and left the closet, suddenly feeling self conscious for him; I shouldn't be looking through his stuff. No matter if I was curious or not. Whatever had happened in his life to bring him to this point, whatever had been whittled away to leave the man he was, didn’t excuse any of his actions. They may explain them but they were no excuse. 

After I got dressed I had to sit on the bed and catch my breath. Somewhere there must be some pills, some way to cope with this pain. I looked down at my legs that were trembling as I tried to take long even breaths. I knew it would take him time to get here. I wanted back in my own body. But most of all I wanted out of his. I closed my eyes and decided to lie back down. When I drew the covers back up over me I didn’t know if the strong feeling of sadness was mine or his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww poor Chilton. Will is doing what he's supposed to do, just waiting it out . . . apologies for some author imagining of a Chilton background. I'm not aware of any mention of family or connections outside of his work? One more longer chapter to wrap up this fic, thanks all!


	5. An Opportunity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chilton's POV.

On the way to my house I had an idea. Will’s car, burning oil and suffering in the frigid air had just barely heated up when I made the decision. I couldn’t just pass up this opportunity. I needed to know Hannibal’s secret. And Will had a relationship with him I’d not expected. Well, maybe suspected. But whatever their relationship was, their mutual, far too obvious to anyone that was actually looking intimacy, was too valuable, too rich, to ignore. Hannibal would never talk to me. He hates me. And maybe he should. I don’t exactly have his best interests in mind. I have my interests in mind. Like surviving. But as I said, I’d never have this opportunity again. The spell could reverse itself at any moment. Could reverse itself while I was driving. I needed to know. Needed to know for sure. What was he hiding? Hannibal and Will are more than just psychiatrist and patient. That much I know. And if Hannibal had something to hide it wasn’t from Will Graham.

I found myself at Hannibal’s office and knew that what I was doing had to be done. No reservations. No doubt. Will’s body bounced up the stairs easily and I enjoyed every moment of it.

I knocked at Hannibal’s door and briefly had time to wonder if I’d dressed right, if my hair looked right, before the door swung open. 

“Will,” Hannibal was genuinely startled, “Are you alright?”

“Uh,” I hunched my shoulders and widened my eyes till tears welled at their edges, “I need to talk to you.”

“Of course,” he said and stepped back from the door. That was easy enough. “Come in, my last client just left.”

“I don’t know where to start,” I said, throwing my coat on the small couch, spinning around to face him.

“Something about our conversation from this morning?” he asked, sitting down and crossing his legs. Oh, so he was treating this as therapy? Okay.

I glanced at the opposite chair but decided against it, “Maybe. Yeah,” I paced a few steps, formulating my thoughts, my plan, “Maybe you were right. Maybe I’m just having a hard time adjusting.”

“In what way?”

“How can I find myself again after something like this? How could anyone?”

“Do you feel you’ve lost yourself?”

“In more ways than one,” I said with my back turned, aware his eyes were on me, aware that he was concerned, grateful even, pleased that Will was seeking his shoulder through all this. Come on, Frederick, I urged myself, feeling a fair amount of excitement, glee even as I reset my face and turned back around, “Do you think that we all have an inherent self, a core part of ourselves, deep down, something that is impervious to change?”

“You are referring to the authentic self?”

“Authentic self?”

“Some believe that there is a genuine, innate true self, a center around which all people revolve but rarely immerse themselves in. It is seen as an ideal to strive for. Orientate oneself to. It is through acting and honoring the authentic self that people believe they are living their best lives.”

“Do you believe that? Do you think you have an authentic self? That I do?”

“It can be a comforting thought. That regardless of what happens to us there will always be a true north, a port in the storm, a hard iron core we can return to,” he said this with some thought, watching me pace around his office with a growing curiosity, “Though all I’ve experienced has suggested that who we are can’t be that simple. Nor that linear. Regardless of how much some people want it to be,” he paused again, “Are you considering your authentic self, Will?”

“Maybe I’m worried I don’t have one.”

“It makes sense for you to question this now, considering the last few months.”

“Come on,” I scoffed, not sure if I was mad at Hannibal’s singular gentle nature at Will or if Will just didn’t react well to sympathy. I turned to face him, hands curling into fists at my sides, “Please, I’m not some fragile thing that needs to be comforted.”

He shifted in his chair, licking his lips, “My goal isn’t to comfort. But to offer perspective. Options. Perhaps you aren’t adrift, seeking your way back to that known port, perhaps self is not a static concept, Perhaps any former impressions are only tethers that keep you tied to the past.”

“Oh is that a familiar concept to you?” retorted with a sharp and suggestive tone.

He raised his chin, his profile half in shadow. I could see, no feel, the twinge of that hesitation, a strong heartbeat passing through the space between us like ripples on water, “I’m no stranger to reinventing myself.”

“And what would necessitate that exactly?

“Life can be unpredictable.”

“People can be unpredictable.”

“Anyone in particular?”

I stopped pacing, “Haven’t you ever wondered what I sense from you? With my empathy,” I met his eyes finally, aware now of the effect those eyes had on people, but especially what effect they had on Hannibal, “I’d think that it would fascinate you to hear.”

“I’ve wondered,” he answered and it was honest, “But that wouldn’t be helpful to our therapeutic relationship. Do you want to resume your therapy, Will?”

“Or . . . what?” I asked, adding a pause that tugged at his breath as it did mine.

He remained still, to anyone else expressionless, half in shadow, “Or we continue on as friends.”

“Friends,” I repeated softly. I dropped my eyes over Hannibal’s body, up a long leg, tracking the steady rise and fall of his chest until I met his eyes again.

His lips parted and he took a breath, “Maybe therapy would be less confusing than friendship at the moment.”

Oh Hannibal, I thought. So guarded. So careful. Still so focused on work. On Will’s wellbeing. The unspoken truths between him and Will were trapped in the stillness that stretched for an eternity in every direction. I’d thought I was preoccupied with my own preservation. Oh no. This was a whole new level. He was afraid. And maybe I wouldn’t have noticed that if I wasn’t in Will’s body.

“Let’s set up an appointment then,” I said and watched as he stood and turned to his desk. With his back turned he spun his ledger around and opened it, “The same time slot is open if you are interested,” he said, leaning over his desk.

I stepped forward until I was standing behind him as if I was looking at the ledger with him. He turned his head slightly to observe me standing so close, near to touching, but didn’t move away. I was close enough to see the subtle crinkle of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the warm amber light that emanated from their depths as he asked, almost warmly with a spark of surprise, “Does that work for you?”

I nodded and he grabbed a pen. Will’s heart rate had increased. I slowly leaned forward until my body pressed against Hannibal’s and even more slowly, cautiously, like taming a beast, I placed a hand on his flank, just over his opposite hip. 

“You left room for me?” I asked, pressing my back against his, edging my lips close to his ear. He stiffened and stood as still as granite for one, two breathes, hip shifting slightly under my hand. I felt the hair on the back of his neck rise near my lips and my eyes closed, nostrils wide against Hannibal’s skin. 

After what seemed like an eternity, over the space of only a few thundering heart beats he said softly, “I’d hoped,” and I felt his chest expand and then best of all, as my lips brushed over the soft flesh behind his ear I felt a shiver that rolled like a wave down his back.

“Will,” he said as I breathed against the strong pulse at his neck. Will’s body echoed the same arousal, deep in his chest and radiating out in a soundless urgency through his whole body. He wanted this. His body wanted this. Whether he knew it or not he was starved for contact. I felt Hannibal shift against my body, against the hardening of my cock which he no doubt felt against him and he asked in an impossibly soft and stuttering voice, “What are you doing?”

I finally pressed my lips fully against the hot salty skin of his neck and I didn't have to look to feel both our eyes shut. It was extraordinary. Will’s awareness, perception, all colour and heat and vibrations tightly coiled around us; it was intoxicating. I pressed my hips further forward into Hannibal, the push of my erection through my pants eliciting a small gasp from him as my hand tightened on his hip. It was a clawing yearning thing, whether from Will or Hannibal’s body, dragged hand over fist from the depths. 

I crept my other arm around his body, to his chest, sliding my hand down his heaving stomach as I leaned flush into ass, “I know what you are,” I said, snaking my tongue out to tickle his ear lobe, “I know what we are,” his body shuddered and a small breathy sound escaped his lips.  _ Oh _ , I thought with a smile,  _ what a hungry little bitch you are _ . 

And he was wordless. Finally Hannibal Lecter was made speechless by his little FBI play-thing rubbing his erection against his ass. The great Hannibal Lecter. Falling to pieces right in front of me. Maybe Will should be flattered. Maybe I didn’t care. Maybe it just felt good. 

Hannibal was helpless as my hand met the hem of his trousers and I let my thumb hook under the fabric as I asked with a thrust of my hips, “What do you think we could do together? Make together?” I shifted to rub my cheek against his, lips ghosting over the skin where there was the slightest prickle of stubble, “Hmm?” I felt him turn his head, seeking, wanting, needing more from me as I inched my hand lower, already feeling the pulse of his erection through his trousers, “What beautiful carnage?”

“Is that what you see behind closed eyes, Will?” Hannibal asked breathlessly and I felt the barest of him arching into me, his body hard and hot against my smaller form as I held him in place.

“The question is what do you see?” I asked and slid my hand all the way down to the large straining bulge in his trousers. He let out an audible moan and though I’d rather he’d confessed in that moment that he was a brutal sadistic serial killer his reception to me was enough to be a very open window to what had been a shuttered and hazy terrace. My fingers stretched and gripped his hard cock through the damp fabric and that was all it took, his lanky form leaned back into the insistant weight of my hips and I arched forward. I felt the hot leak of Will’s cock in my trousers and against Hannibal’s ass. In that moment I wished I could see his eyes but would have to settle at pushing his body down onto his desk like he so obviously wanted me to. 

Suddenly the office door flung open. Hannibal jerked away from me in surprise. It made me fall back, caught off balance even in Will’s strong body as I heard, “Frederick, get away from him!” and saw myself, my body, standing in as much of a challenging pose as it could muster in the doorway. 

My head spun back around to Hannibal who had backed onto his desk, propping himself up on his arms to stare first wide eyed at me then at Fredrick Chilton. 

I backed away another step from Hannibal and threw a shining smile onto my face, “Will,” I laughed, “I was just on my way to meet you.”

“Will,” Hannibal breathed and looked again at me then to Will in my body. He looked utterly dumbfounded and that, with the brief moments before, made this whole ordeal worthwhile. I felt thrilled, overjoyed, even though I knew it was over. My cover was blown. And Will looked on the verge of homicidal mania. Not a great face on my face.

“Hannibal,” Will said, striding forward cane and all, “That’s not me. It’s Frederick Chilton. I’m Will Graham.”

“What?” Hannibal breathed, “How?” he demanded as I backed away further still, understandably fearful. Even though Will was in my body I knew enough not to underestimate his rage. I seemed to bring it out of him. Though it pleased me to think of the confusing, lingering erection that Hannibal had no chance of hiding from Will. And just as pleasing was that Will could see his own just as clearly. Though considering the circumstances it was fading. Unfortunately.

“Frederick Chilton stole my body,” Will started to explain as he followed me across the room. When my back hit a bookshelf I gasped and felt myself start to shake, “He used a magic spell to get to us,” Will finally caught up to me and his hand met my chest, curling into the fabric of my shirt, “Fun’s over, Frederick,” he hissed, then pulled from his pocket the black stone, “I knew I couldn’t trust you,” and he slammed the stone against my chest.

My vision instantly split in two. Through a shimmering haze I saw Hannibal standing in the background, my stomach heaved up into my throat and then I felt like I was falling. Falling. Blackness. Humming in my ears as my legs turned to jelly and I hit the ground.

When I opened my eyes again, crawling as if from a pitch dark tunnel I could see Will Graham fallen against the bookcase where I had been standing and Hannibal Lecter was suddenly across the room, holding him up by his armpits. 

I was back in my own body. Exactly where I didn’t want to be. Heavily and despondently back in this fleshy prison. And no one was helping me get up. I scrambled for my cane and resisted the sudden urge to throw up as I forced my legs under me. 

“No, stop him,” I heard Will say. We looked equally green. 

Hannibal hesitated, I guess not wanting to let Will go, which gave me enough time to steady myself, “I told you it wouldn’t last,” I wheezed, “See? We’re both where we belong.”

After some assurance Hannibal had finally left Will’s side and was striding forward with a terrifying purpose, “How dare you,” he said in a chilling voice as again I was back up against a wall.

“It was a mistake,” I urged him, feeling for the doorframe of Hannibal’s office, “I really, really didn’t mean for this to happen. It just did. And now it’s over. Okay? I can’t erase this from having happened. But I promise,” I edged one foot out the doorway and it suddenly felt and appeared like Hanibal was a shadow descending upon me, “I won’t ever do magic again. Ever. It was a mistake, it was stupid, so so stupid. Please.”

Hannibal hadn’t touched me yet when I heard Will say behind him, “Hannibal.”

Oh, no he was considering leniency? How generous. Of them both.

Hannibal had heard Will but appeared a coiled, ravenous thing, teeth wet with the urge to bite down onto my throat as he leaned forward, his voice a low hum as he said with a shaking menace, “Run, Frederick,” he growled, “I’ll call on you soon.”

And that was all I needed. I did run. By the time I got back to my car I was breathless and near panting with pain. Of course Will hadn’t taken my medication. Fuck. Everything hurt. Fucking masochist. Everything in my body felt jolty and jagged and off kilter. 

When the car door slammed behind me I sat back in the seat with a strangled groan of pain. God damn it. Any feelings of glee or accomplishment suddenly melted away. I’d gambled. I’d made a mistake. And it hadn’t paid off. So when the tears started, keys in the ignition, I waited to drive, not sure if I could. I whipped at my face, trying to clear the tears. Trying to cry soundlessly. I wasn’t sure why or to what end but I kept the car in park and curled my arms around myself. Alone. Maybe I’d gotten close. Closer than I’d ever gotten. To the truth. To something real. I leaned my head back and tried to steady myself.  _ Always a bright side _ , I heard my mom’s voice say from a time long past,  _ always a silver lining to the tears _ , she’d said. And she was right. Hannibal had a weak spot. That much was obvious. And it, I’d discovered, was someone I could use to my advantage, someone he wanted to protect. How strange for someone like him. He always seemed so alone. Like me. I’d find a way. Another way. Hannibal’s wrath notwithstanding. Maybe I was a dead man. Or maybe nothing could keep me down. Not forever. He’d underestimate me. And that would be Hannibal’s mistake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One short chapter to wrap up.


	6. A Missed Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's POV

“Suddenly this doesn’t seem so bad,” I said, holding out my thumb then curling it to my chest. A small injury, a minimal amount of pain. Compared to Frederick’s. I closed my eyes and shifted on the couch where Hannibal had deposited me. He was overly concerned with the after affects of the spell but I felt fine. Sort of. He was sitting next to me, looking maybe more unsettled than I was. 

We’d sat there for several more dazed moments, unsure of what had happened or how to proceed. I turned to look at him, “Are you alright?”

He took a moment to respond, taking a steadying breath first, “I’m fine,” he said, eyes scanning me, scanning my body, “The more important question is: are you alright?”

“I think so,” I took a feeble inventory of myself, my body, “Everything seems to be where it's supposed to be.”

Hannibal’s gaze wandered and he almost laughed, maybe out of desperation, head shaking, “I’d say I was surprised by Dr. Chilton’s dalliance into the dark arts but recent events have convinced me he’d stop at nothing to gain a competitive edge.”

“If it matters I don’t think he meant to hurt either of us,” I said, shifting to sit on the edge of the couch, more confident in my limbs at this point. I felt more grounded. If exhausted.

Hannibal hadn’t looked back to me, eyes still averted, the tension of his nerves almost audible like a stringed instrument as he said, “Perhaps this will teach him a lesson then. Magic is not to be trifled with.”

“No,” I agreed, feeling my head start to pound. Suddenly I wanted Hannibal to look at me. Wanted the comfort. But he seemed distant. What had I seen when I’d barged in? I wasn’t sure. Chilton had had Hannibal against the desk. A part of my brain, maybe the exhausted part, didn’t want to acknowledge what it had looked like. How awful that actually was.

“Curious,” Hannibal said after a moment, “Before you,” he paused, hands clasped between his knees, “Interrupted him, Dr. Chilton was asking about the concept of an authentic self,” he looked up to finally meet my eyes, “I’d told him I didn’t believe in it. That I thought the reality of self is far more complex and mercurial than modern psychology has been able to quantify. But now,” he shifted again, far more unsure and cautious of his words than I had ever seen him, “All that you are, Will, all I know of you, that you know of yourself, was excised from your body and put into his. I’m not sure what that means. Or how it conflicts with my own beliefs,” he took a deep breath, “Perhaps there is an ineffable quality to self, something truly untouchable, something I hadn’t considered.”

I considered this too, feeling utterly unprepared to make any statement regarding the quality or quantification of self but knew, somehow, he needed it, needed something from me in that moment. I looked at him, at his lowered profile in the dim light, the way his hair was falling over his brow and his lips were pressed tightly against each other. Like he was holding back emotion. I took a breath, “I wasn’t in his body long but it was long enough to be affected by it. If I had had to stay in his body any longer I don’t know what would have happened to my mind. I think the physical experiences we have truly affect us. We really are a sum of all our parts.”

He glanced quickly at me, “Of course,” he tried a smile, “I’m just grateful you are back where you belong.”

“Me too. Believe me,” he was silent again. Closed to me. I stood after a moment which attracted his gaze. He knew I needed to go. Knew I wasn’t feeling well. He nodded wordlessly in understanding and stood up as well, drawing himself to his full height. He looked like he wanted to take my arm but I walked myself to his door. He was close behind me, just in case. 

At the doorway I stopped, taking a shuddering breath, light headed and overwhelmed, somewhere between wanting to be instantly home with my dogs and wanting to collapse into his arms. But I couldn’t help but be curious. Especially given all that had happened. All of my questioning of who I really am, who I’ve become, open and exposed and raw in this moment. I wondered how he saw me. Insecurity closed around my throat as I asked, “Did you have any idea? Did you know it wasn’t me?”

He paused, eyes flitting to mine briefly and I felt a sharp pain and a lingering tightness that he swallowed back. A ripple of sadness made his lower lip quiver slightly, only noticeable since I was so close before he steadied his face and said finally as if with great effort, “I knew you weren’t yourself,” I said nothing. Didn’t know what to say. He avoided my eyes, saying into the darkness of his office, “You probably want to be heading home,” he rested a hand on the doorframe, “The dogs.”

“The dogs,” I repeated.

I left his office with a strange heaviness, limbs uncooperative and eyes gummy with tiredness. Would we mention this again? Would I start therapy with him again? Whatever it was it felt unfinished. What had Chilton done? What was I missing. I got in my car and felt a sick feeling crawl up from my gut, feeling alone, feeling not for the first time, that I shouldn’t be leaving him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. It struck me writing it. Did Hannibal know what it wasn't Will? Eitherway I will leave it to the reader.

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry that it is a slight Supernatural crossover/reference. Also if you squint a Smallville crossover since I'm a croan and have been in fandom for ages and ages. If anyone catches the Smallville-ness, hats off but it's all in the service of the body swap storyline. If it's unclear I really do love Chilton and yes he may seem like an ass in this chapter but it's for a good reason. So next up we get a bit of soft cannibals being cute at each other before the spell takes hold . . . Comments and kudos are love, missed posting here so let me know what you think, tak!


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